Angel in the Snow
by MillyIs
Summary: AU Drarry slash: Harry is a teacher. Draco is one of his students. Tensions between them turn into something more, but how can their relationship survive? **UPDATED**
1. Chapter 1

**my little note - **

**hello everyone! this is my first ever fic so please r&r - help me improve :) anyways, i don't own the story or characters so please don't sue me!**

**okay, the jist of the story is as follows - harry is a teacher. draco is a student. it's not supposed to happen, but it does.**

**eventually.**

**winks**

**edit: is anyone else not seeing paragraphs on this?? I tried to separate them with ampersands but they keep disappearing and reappearing. If anyone know how to fix this, please let me know... **

_"i'd say you make a perfect  
angel in the snow  
all crushed out on the way you are  
better stop before it goes too far  
don't you know that i love you  
sometimes i feel like only a cold still life  
that fell down here to lay beside you" _

- Prologue -

St Rowling's Mixed Boarding School was a place of contradiction. It catered for the sons and daughters of rich

men, who would take everything but their last breath for granted, and for the sons and daughters of the poor, who

had earned their place through intellect and the strongest of catalysts - anger.

Draco Malfoy, the richest son of them all, had, from inception, spearheaded a campaign against the

indignity of having to share St Rowling's with 'the scholarship scum', as they were most commonly termed. His

campaign had successfully served to reinforce the longstanding silent segregation between the two factions, and

had cemented his status as a Malfoy to be reckoned with, towering over his contemporaries through the power of

excessive beauty and forcefully bone-headed arrogance. The teachers did not acknowledge the divide, though

they knew it was there. It hung always over their heads, flashing invisible in the halls. Rich did not speak to poor.

This was the way it had always been, and would always be - until a young teacher decided to change it all, as the

young so often do.

The story I am about to tell has been, is being and no doubt will be relayed over countless dinner tables,

to countless tipsy ladies, through countless restless mouths, all hungry for details, eager to pore over the facts and

fictions surrounding the barely-believable events of January. The tipsy ladies will have their fun speculating, but

they will never know the truth. The truth is in the hands of a friendly omniscient narrator, you the reader, and, of

course, Malfoy and the young teacher in question - with whom the tale shall begin.

- 1 -

Harry Potter - too handsome to be a teacher. These were the words that jostled through the staff rooms, the

classrooms, the corridors. Everyone had seen him - the startling green eyes, the endearingly ruffled black hair, the

slim, subtly muscular physique, the nervous yet friendly smile he gave to them all. Oh yes, the talk was true -

Harry Potter was definitely too handsome to be a teacher, though the thought would never even occur to him,

modest as he was. Harry believed in one thing and one thing only - integrity. It was etched in him, in the way he

would hold open the door for everyone, the way he treated everyone from Queen to dustman as equal, the way

he would go out of his way to help purely through empathy, never pity. He believed, above all things, that all

humans were born to live, in the true sense of the word, and the best way to help people truly live was through the

opening of their minds, through education. Yes, I suppose it could be said that Mr Potter was something of an

idealist.

&

Harry's introduction to the strange world of Rowling's came in the form of an incredibly brief 'meeting'

with Cornelius Fudge, the newly appointed and insufferably pompous head of admissions. Fudge had looked

Harry up and down sharply, exclaimed "YOU. Are a man of GOOD. BREEDING," then continued with his

paper work. Next had been Mr Severus Snape, a man as sharp as his name. He did not suffer fools. Matter of

fact, he did not suffer anyone. He had shown Harry to his new desk (the smallest in the room), with all the grace

and charm of a shark eyeing its prey. In between all this, Harry had to contend with several untactful students

giggling as he walked by, or simply stopping dead in amazement. Harry had wondered if there was something on

his face.

And now, sitting outside the headmaster's office and waiting for his final briefing, Harry was nervous. More than

he had been since Tom and the... he didn't like to think about that. He breathed in. Looked at his hands. They

were shaking, of course. Harry's hands always shook when he needed them to be steady. He looked

ahead, at a reproduction of Van Gogh's Wheatfield With Crows on the wall. Its inky black, swirling sky never

failed to draw Harry in whenever he saw it, and today was no different.

"Isn't it lovely?" a male voice breathed besides him. Harry yelped, startled. The man next to him laughed.

"The same to you," the man said. Harry looked at him, smiled, then stopped. His eyes narrowed. Harry

recognized him. The blond hair, the grey - no, silver - eyes, the somewhat dangerous air about him...

"I'm sorry, have we met?" Harry asked. The man shook his head, then checked his nails.

"No. You might have seen me in the society pages of Tatler though - or Harpers & Queen, that sort of

thing..."

"Lucius Malfoy's son?"

The man looked terribly peeved at this.

"Draco Malfoy. I'm no one's son, not even my father's."

"Oh... okay."

"Anyway, who are you?"

"I'm Harry. Harry Potter. I'll be teaching here from tomorrow."

"Oh! What subject?"

"English"

"Ah, you look the sort."

Harry laughed.

"Yes, I suppose I do... what do you teach, Draco?"

"Teach! Do you have any idea how much my father earns? Teaching's for the poor - or the hopelessly

deluded. I'm a student here," Draco said haughtily.

Harry looked at the man - boy, even - amused. He had never met anyone so self-assured in his life - he didn't

think people like this existed. Although Draco had proven himself amusing enough, Harry silently prayed that he

would not be teaching him this year. Arrogance was not an appealing trait.

"... not that you're poor of course, sir..." Draco trailed off. He seemed to have realised a little late that the

twenty-something next to him was, on paper at least, his superior.

The awkward silence which ensued was broken by Draco.

"Mr Potter?"

"Yes?"

"Which English group are you teaching for upper sixth?"

"The higher tier, I think."

"Oh, that's mine," a faint trace of excitement lay buried in Draco's drawl. Harry groaned with all his heart.

"Well. You'll get to put up with my hopeless delusion for a whole year," Harry smiled.

"I should think you're worse off, sir - there's so much ship scum in my English class, its teeming with them --"

"-- Ship scum?"

"Oh, you know, the scholarship kids," Draco lowered his voice, " - though I think scum is more fitting." He

smirked conspiratorially at Harry. Harry felt his blood run cold. His jaw tightened in anger.

"I should think there's far better words to describe people than 'scum," Harry barked. Draco's eyes

widened in indignation.

"What?"

"You heard me, Malfoy."

Just then, a woman poked her head out of the headmaster's office.

"Mr Potter, Albus is ready to see you now"

Harry smiled at her, and wordlessly left Draco's side. Draco scowled. Deeply.

&

One could easily be fooled into thinking that Albus Dumbledore, with his long grey beard and kindly

wrinkles, was a soft touch. This was not the case. Dumbledore was gifted. He knew the score in a way no-one

else ever could - through some freak twist of nature's law, some divine accident, he could see lies in colours. This

was particularly handy in Dumbledore's profession - school often teaches children to lie in order to save

themselves, and the headmaster's gift meant that the path of truth was the only path the children in his care could

take. Right now, Harry Potter screamed blue. Blue was pure truth, and Dumbledore knew he had made the right

choice for the coveted English teaching position. His eyes twinkled in soft sunlight, which seeped in through the

skylight. He watched Harry talk; words flowed out of him like water from a gushing tap - he spoke of integrity,

equality, and various other meaningless concepts. Dumbledore was old enough to know that resistance to the

order of things was, more often than not, futile. The world was unfair - Harry did not realise this yet, but he would

soon enough.

" -- and I just think that the labelling of children clever enough to get scholarships as 'ship scum' as the

Malfoy boy suggested is, well, it's something I'd like to change." Harry finished off.

"Thank you, Mr Potter, for that impassioned speech," Dumbledore smiled softly. Harry blushed.

"However..." he continued, "... there is one thing you must remember, before you begin your mission. I

came to this school in 1945. 1945. That's an awfully long time ago. In my entire tenure at Rowling's, I have tried,

Mr Potter. I have tried long and hard to shift the divide between the children, from bonding days to awareness

assemblies - every trick in the book, you name it, I have tried it. But something you have to understand is that

however much control we have over the children, their parents have more. That is how the strongest hatred is

born - from the mouths of mothers to the mind of the child. I cannot erase that type of hatred, and neither can

you. You can try. You will fail, but you can try."

Harry wasn't sure what the best response to this entirely disheartening speech should be... He settled on, "That I

will do, Mr Dumbledore."

Dumbledore smiled.

"Go."

Harry nodded in acknowledgement and turned to leave.

"One more thing I forgot to mention..."

Harry turned back.

"Good luck. You'll need it."


	2. Chapter 2

**a/n - thanks to the lovelyfolks who reviewed the first chapter (hee-chan, mezashite, emeraud silver, redmeadow, gbheart and djnum - you are all classic and i heart you)- special thanks to mezashite for pointing out that anonymous reviews were not being accepted. I have sorted out this problem, therefore everyone can now review wahey! **

- 2 -

Harry's first week at Rowling's had been, to put it mildly, chaotic. In the first five minutes of his first class, a girl

named Luna Lovegood had declared herself to be 'in love with you, like bacteria loves cheese'. The next day, a slice

of Edam had appeared on his desk. The day after that it was cheddar. In between Luna's cheese offerings had been

Pansy. Pansy Parkinson. A girl so utterly terrifying that Harry was inclined to believe she was part dragon, or part

wolf at the very least. Pansy had tried to pinch Harry's rear every time he walked past her desk. Harry's threats of

detention only elicited the following response: "Could you make that sexy angry face again please sir?", which opened

a floodgate of giggles from the rest of the class. Harry had left that particular lesson feeling rather violated.

&

Harry had also earned himself a mini stalker; a third year named Colin Creevey (or Colin Creepy, as he was wont to

be called). Creevey had spent his entire Wednesday afternoon English lesson trying - in vain - to covertly take

pictures of Harry using his cameraphone. Harry tried to ignore him, until Creevey set his camera to flash mode,

thereby turning the lesson into a let's-blind-teacher session. Harry proceeded to confiscate Creevey's camera, telling

him to grow up, which had made Creevey start sobbing, "but you're supposed to like me!" Harry really didn't know

what to say to that, so he simply continued with the lesson. That afternoon, Harry found a note on his desk; 'Dear Mr

Potter, sorry about the hysterics. You make Macbeth interesting. I like Banquo. Yours apologetically, Colin

Creevey.'. At that moment, Harry had thought to himself that teaching was both the single most and least rewarding

profession in the world.

The week's highlight (or lowlight, to be specific) came at its end, with the Friday afternoon upper sixth lesson. With

that lesson came Draco Malfoy, and Malfoy was not going to make things easy. However, the lesson had started off

well enough. A few warnings for talking and giggling here and there, but above all a peaceful experience. Until the

group activity.

&

"Right!" Harry clapped his hands with glee. He had planned this out days ago. Operation Student Unity was about to

begin. "I'm going to put you lot into pairs, and --" He was interrupted by groans.

"We put ourselves into pairs. We're upper sixth," Malfoy drawled, his voice toneless.

"Well I'm putting you into pairs today," Harry said sharply. Malfoy smirked at him, safe in the knowledge that he

didn't have to lift a single finger to settle his score with Potter. The man had just dug his own grave.

"Alright," said Harry, reading from a list, "I want Seamus Finnegan with Blaise Zabini, Hermione Granger with

Milicent Bulstrode, Ron Weasley with Draco Malfoy --"

"NO WAY."

Harry looked up. The voice of dissent had come from the Weasley boy, a boy with a temperament as fiery as his

hair.

"I'm sorry sir but... it's Malfoy. He's... evil."

"Why thank you," Malfoy said amusedly.

"Don't thank me for telling the truth, you prat," Ron spat.

"Stop. Now." said Harry in his sternest tone, "You're working together and that's final."

"Forgive me for being so blunt sir..." Malfoy began, "... but we don't mix with the ship scum."

This provoked a roar of disapproval from the other half of the class. One girl stood up, poised to smack Malfoy from

here to eternity. Ron Weasley looked as though he might just kill him there and then, to hell with prison.

"You over there - sit down. And Malfoy. Detention."

"I take it you're not the forgiving type then, sir."

"Wipe that smirk off your face, Malfoy," Harry said, trying to keep the anger from his voice.

"I'll wipe it off for you," Ron mumbled. Hermione, the bushy-haired girl next to Ron, elbowed him sharply.

"Sir," Milicent Bulstrode piped up, "I think my parents would agree with Draco."

"Mine too," said Blaise.

"And me," said a bulky boy with a gruff voice named Vincent Crabbe.

"We can get written permission from them if we have to," Draco said matter-of-factly. Harry's blood boiled. There

was something about Malfoy which got under his skin, like a splinter you couldn't dislodge.

"I'll ignore their written permission if I have to. The school code overrules it."

"The school code doesn't mean shit. If you'll pardon my French."

"Alright Malfoy, that's two weeks detention."

Draco snorted. "You can't touch me."

"Alright then, let's make it three. Wait - on second thoughts, make it an even month. That's one month's detention for

your trouble." Harry turned to the class. "Now get into your pairs."

The class shuffled grudgingly towards their opposing sides, giving each other - and Harry - venomous looks as they

did so.

"My father's going to hear about this," Malfoy muttered to Blaise Zabini, as he made his way to the scholarships' side

of class. Blaise nodded.

"I can just hear mine now - 'does that Potty man honestly think he knows what's best for my Blaise?"

Draco laughed. Then, Ron tapped him on the shoulder.

"This ain't a mother's meeting, Malfoy --"

"-- don't touch what you can't afford, Weasel," Draco hissed. Ron simply chuckled.

"The last time I heard that I was five years old. Now do you want to carry on throwing your toys out the pram or do

you want to get on with this?"

Draco scowled, then slowly, painfully slowly, sat down next to Ron. Ron rolled his eyes.

"Just - don't - touch me. That's all I ask."

"Fine by me. Who'd want to touch an albino girlyman like you anyway?"

"Shut up, pov."

The rest of the lesson was spent in near total silence. The clock ticked away seconds, serving only to emphasise the

stillness of the room. Papers ruffled, pens scratched, but no voices.

"I would have expected a bit more discussion from you lot," Harry said, hoping that the class had not sensed his

growing exasperation.

"Alright then, I'll have to do it for you. Crabbe, please ask Thomas what he thinks Chaucer is trying to achieve

through his shifting of narratorial voices."

"Thomas," Crabbe mumbled, "What do you think --"

" -- Oh look, this is ridiculous!" Malfoy snapped. "You can't except us to waste our time on _them_!"

Ron stood up sharply, incandescent with rage. Malfoy followed suit, ready for a fight, and they glowered at each

other, oblivious to Harry's warnings and threats of suspension. Neither of them was sure who had shoved who first,

but pretty soon they were pummelling each other, beating with fists, biting, kicking and screaming, as Harry stood

frozen in panic, unable to think for what seemed like forever - then suddenly, pair after pair followed Malfoy and

Ron's suit and began fighting; the previously silent classroom was now a whirling cacophony of fists flying, screaming,

and - was that FIRE? Yes, Milicent Bulstrode had somehow managed to set Parvati Patil's beautiful brown locks

ablaze. The screams could be heard halfway across the school.

&

"I see you had a particularly eventful Friday afternoon," Dumbledore remarked, a twinkle planted firmly in his eye, as

Harry entered his office.

"I - I don't really know what to say, Albus," Harry breathed, taking his seat. Dumbledore smiled, then paused, as if

working out how best to speak his piece without completely shattering Harry's confidence.

"Over the course of a school year, do you know how many letters of complaint we usually receive from parents,

Harry? Ten. Or less. In one year."

"I --"

"-- And do you know how many letters of complaint we have received from parents following last Friday's events?

Fifty. Lucius Malfoy is threatening to withdraw all future investments in the school. And sue. Along with Theodore

Nott's mother. Blaise Zabini's father. Do you know what they're asking me to do?"

Harry sighed. "Give me the sack."

"Well done, Harry."

There was a pause.

"Is this the part where you hand me my resignation papers, Albus?"

Dumbledore blinked. "Well Mr Potter," he smiled, "I'd have thought you'd put up more of a fight than that."

"Well I have no choice, do I? You've made it quite clear to me that the parents get what the parents want."

"Usually. But not in this case."

Harry's eyes lit up.

"What?"

"I'm not going to ask for your resignation just yet. You've proved yourself rather a hit with the staff, and, more

importantly, with the children. Well, apart from the upper sixth of course. But they'll come round."

Harry blushed.

"I've appeased the parents," Dumbledore continued, "By assuring them that - despite the clear 'no fighting' rule in the

school code - their children will not receive any punishment for their actions - though it pained me to say so.

However, as it was set before the incident, Malfoy's month's detention still stands." Dumbledore nodded knowingly

at Harry, who smiled in response.

"You are free to continue teaching."

"Thank you. But I can't promise that I won't keep trying to change a few attitudes around here."

Dumbledore nodded again, face neutral, eyes smiling. He had never seen such raw determination in a teacher before.

It was thrilling to watch. And Malfoy, he thought to himself, had just met his match.


	3. Chapter 3

**a/n - thank you so much to justbecausei'magurl, harrysloverdracosangel, lietothedevil, kyra1 (joygasm! yay!), gbheart, naynymic, lanalley, emeraud.silver, nomad, annG, akuma memento mori and keyvies for the lovely reviews :D this chapter was a bit of a hard one, but i hope it came out okay... let me know what you thought :)**

- 3 -

Having survived another week of mayhem - which included brie and Camembert offerings from Luna, Pansy

Parkinson's increasingly worrying come-ons (she had taken to staring at Harry's nether regions suggestively, then

winking), the frankly disturbing sightings of a few fourth year boys sporting green coloured contacts and artfully

messed black hair, and a new admirer in the form of Romilda Vane, who had offered him some rather odd

tasting chocolates - Harry had barely any time to worry about the next Friday lesson. Of course, the previous Friday

lesson had been the talk of the staffroom at one point in time, but there are so many different things to gossip about

when working in a school that the memory of it faded within minutes, replaced with disbelief at the news of Horace

Slughorn's drink problem. The one person who would not let the incident go was Mr Snape.

&

It was not the best feeling in the world to be interrupted from marking higher tier GCSE essays on 'Lord of the Flies

as a study of atavistic inhumanity' by an interfering, sour-faced old boot, but Harry did his best to look friendly as Mr

Snape loomed over him in typical intimidating and entirely charmless fashion.

"I believe you have the higher upper sixth next lesson, is that correct Mr Potter?"

"Yes, that's right," said Harry, inwardly groaning, "and honestly Severus, I would really prefer it if you just called me

Harry like the rest of my colleagues."

"Familiarities are not my concern, Mr Potter," Mr Snape said, putting particular emphasis on the 'Mr Potter'.

"However," he continued, "since I claim a degree of responsibility for the students' wellbeing, I believe that your

abilities as a teacher are indeed my concern, and those abilities have rather... gone up in smoke, for want of a better

phrase."

Rubeus Hagrid - P.E. teacher extraordinaire and a walking definition of the phrase 'gentle giant' - let out a noise of

indignation, which was quickly quashed with one finely tuned scowl from Mr Snape.

"I thought the matter was already settled. I went through it with Albus --"

"-- And Albus agreed with you. Because Albus shares your view - that all students are created equal. Well, I know

better than that. And I also know that this school is helped along a great deal by people like Lucius Malfoy, people

who are willing to give in order to receive."

Hagrid's eye-roll was almost audible.

"Therefore," Mr Snape concluded, "I would suggest to you, Mr Potter, that in future you would try and avoid

upsetting the people who matter, and come to realise that your dream of somehow uniting the school is rather...

absurd, if I may say so. Oh, and enjoy your lesson." Mr Snape gave Harry a cruel, knowing sneer, then swooped out

of the room. As soon as the door closed, the room erupted into noise.

"Oh Harry, don't worry about him - he's just a supreme, supreme arse," said Nymphadora Tonks, a pink-haired Art

teacher with a heart-shaped face, from the other side of the staffroom.

"Come now, Nymphadora. He's your superior," said deputy head Minerva McGonagall stiffly, as she stirred milk into

her tea.

"Yeah, superior arse," Nymphadora muttered.

A short silence ensued as the staff carried on about their business. Sybil Trelawney, pie-eyed Head of Religious

Studies, had never liked silence. Not one bit.

"I have a feeling," she announced loudly, "in my waters."

"Oh here we go," muttered Nymphadora.

"It's this feeling, I just can't - it's you, Harry," Sybil continued. Harry looked up from his marking. What did the

woman want this time? She had already felt 'in her waters' that Harry would marry a beautiful but unfaithful woman -

which was impossible - and that his first son would die of 'the AIDS', as she put it. Sybil Trelawney had a definite gift

for subtlety.

"I just - I feel something, like --"

"Oh, whatever next Sybil?" asked Sirius Black, a History teacher with rugged good looks and a mischievous glint in

his eyes. "He's going to get thrown to the wolves? Eaten by vultures? Forced to listen to James Blunt for all eternity?"

Sirius gave Harry a sly wink. Harry grinned.

"Oh, you shush, you! Always making fun of me..."

"Oh, Sybil I do apologise. Please continue." Sybil pursed her lips huffily, then began.

"Well, I have to tell you Harry, I've never had a feeling quite as strong as this. I feel like there's a man looking for you,

a man who's - well, evil's a bit of a strong word, but it just about does him justice. I can't quite reach the name, but I

think it sounds a bit like... was it Puzzle? Fiddle? Something like that but I - Harry, are you alright? You've gone a bit

pale."

Harry's throat had dried up all of a sudden. He could feel the sweat prickling on the back of his neck, cold and sharp.

"Would you excuse me?" he croaked, "I really should be getting to my lesson."

&

Anything was better than hearing what Sybil had to say, even facing a riot from a classroom full of bitter students who

hated his guts, Harry decided, as he made his way to the sixth form block. However, upon entering the dreaded

upper sixth lesson, Harry realised that 'classroom full' had been a bit of an overstatement. Half the seats were empty.

Only the scholarship kids had bothered to turn up. Harry took a deep breath, then strided in, making sure to keep his

head up.

"Does anyone know where the other half of the class have wandered off to?" he asked casually. Hermione Granger

pointed to the whiteboard. On it was the word 'BOYCOTT' written in large red letters. Harry's heart sank. He

clapped a hand to his face, trying to work out what his next move might be.

"They left you a note as well, sir. It's on the desk," Hermione explained.

"Oh."

Harry sat at his desk and proceeded to read the note in silence. When he had finished, he simply put his hands behind

his head and sighed.

"If it means anything sir, I read the note, and I know it may seem a little disheartening to think that their parents have

actually allowed this to happen, but just remember that they don't know any better, any of them. They only think what

Malfoy tells them to think, and Malfoy only thinks what his father tells him to think, even if he won't admit it. When

you put us into pairs last lesson, it terrified all of us. But we're still here --"

"-- Yeah, we're still here, waiting for you to stop rabbiting on so he can start teaching us!" Ron said, which earned him

an elbowing. Harry smiled at Hermione. There was something comforting about her air of intelligence, as if her word

was gospel and it was foolish to think the girl anything other than right about everything.

"Thank you, Hermione. And now, on with the show." Pens hovered above pages, ready to begin.

&

Harry had just about finished ranting to Nymphadora about Malfoy's pointless boycott and rather predictable failure

to turn up to detention, when he literally bumped right into the boy - sending him flying to the floor.

"Seeing as you're here," Harry said, watching amusedly as Malfoy struggled to get up, having refused the offer of a

hand, "I think you owe me one detention and roughly half a class."

"I owe you nothing."

"I beg to differ."

"Oh, you can differ all you like. Doesn't change the fact that my father virtually owns this place." Malfoy spat, as he

finally managed to lift himself up.

"Well, he doesn't own Mr Dumbledore. And he clearly stated that your detentions still stand."

"My father could --"

"-- he already has. He's let you have your fight, he's given you your boycott. But your detentions still stand. So we'll

make tomorrow's twice as long, to make up for the one you missed today."

"Fine. But if you expect me to turn up then you're even more demented than that hairstyle would suggest."

Harry and Nymphadora were both unable to stifle their laughter at Malfoy's comment, which only served to vex the

boy. He flashed Harry a look which was almost frightening in its ferocity, then skulked off, purposefully

bumping into a tiny first year in the process.

&

"Christ almighty," breathed Nymphadora, "it's men like Draco Malfoy that make me thank the Lord I've got Remus at

home."

"Remus?"

"Oh, you'll meet him soon. He's a Geography teacher - bit of a hairy bugger, but lovable."

"That's a flattering description if ever I heard one," Harry chuckled.

"Well he is! I'm the one that has to wax his back!"

"Yuck!"

"Well pardon me! I guess some of us are above depilation, aren't we?"

Harry rolled his eyes and smiled.

"Hmm... who's waxing your back, Harry?" Nymphadora asked, giving him a sly wink.

"Well, if that's your way of asking about my love life, there is someone..."

"Ooh, do tell!"

"It's a long distance thing. Not very workable, really."

"You could make it work, Harry. You're nothing if not determined."

"Oh, I don't know... I'm here and he's in London --"

Nymphadora's eyes widened slightly.

"Really?"

"Yup," replied Harry, nonplussed.

Nymphadora took a small thinking pause, then smiled to herself.

"I need details, Potter."

"Well... He's gentle. He's clever. He's nice looking. He finds my 'demented' hair endearing. He's a really decent bloke -"

Nymphadora winced.

"-- Ooh, that's baaad..."

"What's baaad?"

"Decent bloke. It's the mother of all 'I'm not that into you' phrases..."

"But it's the best way to describe him. He's honest, sensitive, loving, he cares about people --"

"-- Then you're too alike."

"What?"

"You just described yourself there, mate. Get yourself a bad boy, someone a bit different!"

_'Been there. Done that. Got the scars,'_ thought Harry, shivering slightly. Sybil's words had just floated to the surface

of his mind again, and he would do anything to sink them.


	4. Chapter 4

**a/n - sorry I haven't updated in ages! i've been terribly busy, but i'm back with an extra long chapter(forgive me if its lacking, i finished it at 2 in the morning)... thanks so much to willow ann rover, , myoriginalintent, gbheart, saintvirgin87, dea puella, betania, animegurl088, akuma memento mori and the vampire sweetie for your lovely reviews! **

- 4 -

Draco Malfoy did not turn up to his second detention as a matter of pride, having not yet recovered from the

humiliation of having being knocked over sideways by that awful Potter man. Draco was definitely not prepared

to give Potter a chance to gloat any more than he already had done. So Draco did what any rational human being

would do. He decided to destroy Potter in the most efficient way he knew how - through public humiliation.

&

The St Rowling's Debating Society had long ago ceased to act as a simple means of honing the fine art of speech

making; it had become something more brutal, more meaningful - a verbal battleground, for want of a better phrase.

It functioned as a weekly one hour release of frustration, in which the two sides of the school could attack each other

with the lightest weapon of them all - words. The head of the society was Malfoy; life at Rowling's would not have

made much sense if he wasn't. As head, Malfoy had the power to choose which motion would be raised at the

weekly meeting, who would be key speaker on each side, and which teacher would act as chair. Of course, it was

sheer coincidence that Harry Potter was invited to chair the following motion: 'New teaching methods are a

dangerous threat to our valued traditions'. Malfoy's plan was simple. Reveal Potter's inadequacies, win the debate

(by a landslide), watch Potter get dragged off the premises to the sounds of rapturous applause, and finally, bask in

glory.

&

Harry hadn't quite realised just how popular the St Rowling's Debating Society was with both staff and pupils. The

great hall, a massive space by all standards, was packed, filled to the brim with excited faces and nervous ones, all

hoping their side would win, all bursting with anticipation. He took a deep breath, and began.

"Could everyone quiet down please?"

The sound of chatter dimmed slowly, then faded.

"Thank you. My name is Mr Potter and I'm acting as chairman --" Harry was interrupted by a burst of cheers, wolf

whistles, and a faint cry of 'cheeeese!'. He blushed deeply. Draco scowled.

"Okay, thank you, let's get on with the show."

The hall quietened again.

"On my right we have those supporting the motion - Pansy Parkinson and key speaker Draco Malfoy --" Malfoy's

name got roughly the same reaction as Harry's, "-- on my left, we have Seamus Finnigan and key speaker Hermione

Granger opposing the motion."

"Right. You all know how this works, so let's get on with it." And so the debate began.

&

Despite the controversial nature of the motion being proposed, the debate had run surprisingly smoothly so far.

Granger and, admittedly, Malfoy in particular had a natural flair for public speaking - they argued with innate

confidence and lucidity, never stopping to pause for breath between their decidedly convincing arguments. When the

motion was handed to the floor there were no ditherers - even Neville Longbottom, a permanently terrified sixth

former, managed to say his piece with relative ease. Yes, Harry decided, as he watched Granger make her final

speech with considerable grace and eloquence, this debate showcased St Rowling's at its best.

"And the closing speech comes from our key speaker, Draco Malfoy," Harry announced, as the debate drew to its

conclusion. Malfoy stood up, cleared his throat. Now was the time to strike. He quickly ran through a list of points in

his head - 'Potter's teaching methods are bringing our school into disrepute' being the main one - then began.

"To round up our argument, I would like to suggest that the statement 'new teaching methods are a dangerous threat

to our valued traditions' is not only a fact, it is occurring right now, in our very school."

This provoked a slow murmur from the crowd.

"In fact -"

Then Draco stopped. He had just made the fatal error of looking at the man whose name he was about to drag

through the mud. He couldn't continue. He couldn't. Potter's stare had just rendered him speechless. How. Very.

Embarrassing. Draco sat back down as quickly as he had leapt up, cheeks blazing pink. For the first time in its

considerably long history, there was pure silence in the Great Hall. Harry looked at Malfoy, slightly baffled, then, out

of politeness, applauded. The rest of the society followed suit. Inwardly, Draco burned with rage; the perfect

opportunity to oust the man had just been wasted because of what? Pity? No, not pity. Weakness. Well, Draco

thought to himself, I still have the boycott; I still have the upper hand...

&

Harry's Operation Student Unity was coming along nicely. He had created a new fundraising group; hand-picking the

members himself had ensured that the scholarship kids were chosen alongside the privileged, and Harry was pleased

to see that, although the two sides weren't talking to each other, they weren't killing each other either, which had to

be a good sign. However, his most difficult task lay in uniting the sixth form, half of whom had been given parental

consent to boycott his classes. The words of Hermione Granger came back to Harry every so often - _'Remember _

_that they don't know any better, any of them. They only think what Malfoy tells them to think'_. What if Malfoy

could be persuaded to think differently? What then? Harry sighed. It would be a task so difficult to get Malfoy on his

side that he grew tired just thinking about it. The boy had made it perfectly clear that he was not for turning. In his

heart, Harry believed that he would have to find another way to unite the sixth form. Fate, however, was of a

different opinion.

&

Draco was tired, he was pissed off, and he was bored. Bored of listening to the girl beside him twittering on

endlessly about some hair product or another, pissed off because of Potter, obviously, and tired simply because it

was late. He cut the girl short in the middle of a feeble rant (who the hell made an issue out of split ends, for

Christsake?), and asked her bluntly, "Do you want the money now or later?" The girl stuck out her lip, petulant.

"Charming!"

"Just answer the question."

"All right. I'll have it now, if you don't mind."

Draco dug into his pocket and fished out a fifty pound note.

"Will that do you?"

The girl eyed the note with a curious mixture of hunger and disappointment.

"Is that all I'm worth to you?"

"_You're_ not worth anything to me. It's your services I'm paying for."

"Is that all I am to you then? A service?"

Draco gave her a sharp look.

"Until next time."

He got up and left.

&

Harry couldn't sleep. He was still adjusting to his quarters at Rowling's, and adjusting made sleep harder than usual.

His eyes fluttered restlessly. Sybil's prediction hadn't helped either. He curled up into a little ball, hoping that the

change of position would send him off to the land of Nod. It didn't. Harry gave up. He would have to go outside and

get some fresh air, as had become routine since joining the Rowlings staff. He sighed, threw on a coat, and walked

into the night.

&

Rowling's corridors were wonderfully peaceful when there weren't a hundred and one kids traipsing through them,

Harry mused, as he made his way to the garden, carrying a battered Dylan Thomas anthology in one hand, mug of

tea in the other. He was about to turn into the courtyard when he noticed a white-blond head half hidden by a pillar.

Was that...? Yes, it was Malfoy - and his girlfriend Daphne something-or-other, huddled together in a barely visible

corner, looking decidedly suspicious. Harry made his way towards them, ready to tell them to move along, until he

saw something which made his curiosity radar buzz in excitement. Why was Malfoy giving Daphne money? At one o'

clock in the morning? In a secluded corridor? Looking as shifty as an art thief in an empty gallery? Harry's eyes

flashed in anger. There was only one explanation for this. All he needed was further proof of his suspicious and the

two lovebirds would be expelled within the space of a week.

&

Whilst walking back from his late-night rendezvous, Draco noticed a piece of paper lying where it shouldn't have

been. Being a tidy - or perhaps that should be obsessively tidy - sort of person, Draco picked it up, inspected it. It

was the title page of a Dylan Thomas anthology. Written on its left hand corner were the words: If lost, please return

to Harry Potter. Draco sneered... then, as if floodgates had been opened, his mind went into suspicion overload - the

page hadn't been there before. What if Harry had seen what had just gone on between him and Daphne? What

would he think? Worse still, who would he tell? Draco scrunched up the page and tossed it, his eyes narrowed and

blank. Something would have to be done about this.

&

Desperate times call for desperate measures, and Draco Malfoy was one desperate man. He had spent most of the

day staring out of windows pensively or telling his admirers to piss off. He couldn't waste energy on them - mentally

preparing himself for a meeting with Potter was hard enough without hangers-on subtly begging him to like them.

Draco's head ached, his stomach ached, his heart raced. It was funny what nerves could do to the body. Particularly

when sitting at a desk in an empty classroom, waiting for Potter to arrive. Draco was sketching some wild, frantic,

shapeless form when he heard the door open.

"Ah. You made it. Well, I suppose one out of seven isn't bad," Harry said cheerily. Draco hadn't expected that

reaction.

"Do you have any homework with you?"

"What? No. No I... No."

At that moment, Draco felt as though he were standing on a knife edge, unable to move for fear.

"Well, I can lend you a book to read." Harry tossed him a copy of... of course, it was a Dylan Thomas anthology.

Draco's face soured.

"The front page is missing."

Harry looked up, slightly bewildered. Draco gave him a look which he didn't quite understand.

"Well... yes, it is." Then the meaning of Draco's look suddenly became clear. The front page had dropped out as

Harry left. Draco had found it.

Silence set in, and lasted until Draco decided to break it, because enough was enough.

"I know you saw."

Harry leaned back and smiled.

"So that's why you decided to turn up."

"Look, I'll cancel the boycott, alright? Just - just keep whatever you think you saw or think you heard to yourself."

Harry grew serious. "I know what I saw. And I will not - I cannot keep this to myself, Malfoy. The buying and selling

of drugs on school premises --"

Malfoy burst out laughing. Uncontrollably.

"You're high right now aren't you!" said Harry in disbelief, which made Malfoy laugh even harder. Harry folded his

arms and shook his head.

"There are so many people out there who desperately want to learn, and you're wasting your education on something

as stupid and selfish as drugs?"

"Jesus," Malfoy breathed between chuckles, "You don't half jump to conclusions..."

"Well, if you've got a better explanation as to why you were exchanging money at one o'clock in the morning and

acting extremely suspiciously, I'd like to hear it."

"I --" Draco's eyes darted around. He shuffled in his seat.

"I think that says it all, don't you?"

Draco knew that going along with Potter's drug story would be the easiest thing to do. He would get a caution from

Dumbledore, a light rap on the knuckles from the school board, perhaps, and a thousand pats on the back from his

peers. He would live safe in the knowledge that Potter hadn't even come close to finding out the truth. However, the

sheer unrelenting, infuriating sanctimony of the man before him made something inside Draco turn weak, helpless; he

was simply unable to stop himself wanting to prove Potter wrong.

"I don't do drugs, Mr Potter," Draco said calmly, though he felt like smacking the man upside the head. "I'm head

boy. I couldn't even if I wanted to."

"Then what were you paying Daphne for?"

"It's none of your business."

"Were you trying to coerce her into... something she might have been reluctant to do?"

"Of course not," Draco snapped, making sure Harry felt the ice of his withering glare.

"Well then what on earth were you paying her for? To be your girlfriend?" Harry joked, trying to lighten the mood a

little, but Draco's eyes swept downwards for a split second, and in that instant, he knew.

"Who do you think I am?" Draco snarled, but it was too late. He felt it - the air of understanding, the ghastly look of

pity in the teacher's eyes. He could do nothing but run.

&

Nymphadora eyed Harry suspiciously.

"Are you absolutely sure about that?"

Harry groaned. They'd been through this a hundred times.

"I'm more than sure. I'm positive."

"But... they seem so... tactile, don't they? I mean, the amount of times I've had to prise them apart during my Art

History slideshows - honestly, just because it's dark, they think I can't see --"

"-- and I've seen them virtually eating each other's faces in the great hall. And the lawn. And the science labs. It just

doesn't make sense."

"It makes perfect sense!"

"How? Why?"

"Because of course they're going to be over the top! That's what you do when you're acting - you _ex-agg-e-rate_!"

"Okay, so they're acting - what I don't understand is why Malfoy - of all people - would want to pay someone to be

his girlfriend."

Nymphadora raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, Harry, Harry, Harry," she sighed, "for someone so clever you can be awfully dense..."


	5. Chapter 5

**a/n - many thanks to Strega, , GreenEyedCatDragon, NayNymic, gbheart, Crowley Black, Betania and nomad for your lovely reviews!**

- 5 -

Draco had never been in a fouler mood. He had, in the space of one day, told four anonymous ship scum off for

breathing the same air as him, told Granger she looked like she had been dunked headfirst in a candyfloss machine,

told Weasley he would never, ever pull Granger because she obviously didn't fancy him, forcefully removed

Daphne's lips from his earlobe and, to top it all off, told Miss Tonks the art teacher that, quite frankly, no one gives a

shit about art (which had earned him yet another detention but ah well). And now, here he was; steadying himself for

another dreaded meeting with Potter. He breathed in deeply, opened the classroom door, and there the man sat -

looking as though he didn't have a care in the world. Mr Potter. Mr Bloody Potter, who had humiliated Draco on

every possible level and to top it all off, had won their battle simply by being in the right place at the right time.

Potter's head sprang up. He looked at Malfoy with a mix of pity, disdain and, above all, bewilderment.

"You're... here?"

Draco didn't waste any time. He strode up to Potter's desk, leaned in menacingly, and began the speech he had

been rehearsing since the Daphne fiasco.

"Look. I know you know. You know I know you know."

"Come again?"

Draco shot Potter daggers with his eyes, and there were no more interruptions.

"All I'm..." it pained him to say the next word, "..._asking_... is that you tell no-one. Or better still, forget it. Just

forget it ever happened. And I'll come to every detention, I'll call off the boycott. Just keep it to yourself."

Harry raised an eyebrow. It seemed that Malfoy senior's way of working had rubbed off on his son.

"That's fine by me," said Harry, "any homework to do this afternoon?"

"Yes," came the soft reply, and Draco took his seat, rested his head on his chin, and gazed out the window -

at a sea of smiling faces having fun, laughing and joking, poking fun at the ship scum... how he wished he were with

them! But, alas, he was here, and that was the way it had to be. Potter knew his secret, therefore he had to be

pandered to. Unfortunately.

&

The silence had lasted half an hour between them before Harry decided to break it.

"Why do you hate them so much? The scholarship kids?"

Draco looked up from his Physics coursework, startled slightly, then resumed his glacial countenance.

"I don't know."

"Of course you do."

"Well why'd you want to know? _Sir_?" Draco sneered.

"Just curious," Harry said offhandedly. Inside he was bursting with hope. If he could start to understand Draco's

hatred, perhaps he could change it, and that in turn would change the minds of Draco's admirers, and then perhaps,

just perhaps --

"I hate them because they're scum."

"Oh, come on Draco," Harry smiled, "You can do better than that. Treat it like a debate - this house believes that

scholarship children have the right to equal treatment in the school society."

Draco tightened at the mention of debate.

"'This house' would be wrong," he said, giving Harry a withering glare which was deftly ignored.

"Why?"

"Because... Because they're leeches. Their time at this school is funded by other people's money."

"So they shouldn't have the chance to get a good education because they can't afford it?"

"Of course they should have the right to an education. Just not at my expense."

Harry felt a surge of anger burst within him, struggled to contain it...

"And have the scholarship children affected your income?" he asked, his voice tight and hard.

"That's not the point."

"That's the point you just made."

"Look, the point is, they don't belong here. End of story. They wear secondhand uniform that's either ten sizes too

big, ten sizes too small or just plain shabby, they don't understand our ways, their accents are ghastly, I swear to

God I saw one of them on Crimewatch, they don't --"

Harry lifted a hand, and Draco stopped talking.

"Would you say I belong here?" Harry asked.

"Well... despite the little 'save the ships' crusade you're on, yes, I'd say you do."

"And why is that?"

"Your accent, your manner. Good breeding knows good breeding, I suppose."

Harry ran his hands through his hair, a thinking gesture. He wondered whether revealing every twisted detail of his

childhood to a particularly difficult student was a wise move... then shook the thought out of his head. It was for the

good of the cause. Harry took a discreet deep breath, then began.

"My parents died when I was a baby."

"What?"

"I was brought up by my Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. Aunt Petunia was a housewife, Uncle Vernon was a big

shot over at the slaughterhouse."

Draco was about to say something along the lines of 'tell it to someone who cares', but stopped himself. Potter had

to be pandered to.

"They weren't particularly cruel, they just didn't particularly care. I was an annoyance. They spent as little time and

money as they could on me," Harry mused, locked in his own memories. "My bedroom - if you could call it that -

was a cupboard under the stairs, and when I wasn't there I was working, doing all their dirty work. I suppose they

used up all their affection on their son, Dudley. There just wasn't enough to go round. Anyway, when it came to

school, life wasn't much better. I used to turn up in Dudley's hand-me-downs - which wasn't such a good idea

seeing that Dudley was massive and I was tiny."

Draco's eyes lowered for a split second.

"Naturally, I was a target. People used to call me 'homeless Harry', because I looked like a street urchin and didn't

have any money for school dinners, new books, school trips... I was 'homeless Harry', the pov who couldn't even

afford a penny sweet."

Harry paused, remembering to monitor Draco's expression. There was nothing there. No pity, no anger - only a

faint hint of shock in the eyes.

"Anyway," Harry continued, "I immersed myself in my studies, mainly because they were my only way of escaping

the Dursleys. Then, when I was eleven, I managed to scrape together enough money to travel to Horsham and sit

the Christ's Hospital entrance exam. I got in - with a full scholarship. That scholarship meant I could go to

Cambridge. It meant I could study English Literature, and it meant I could do what I've always wanted to do -

become a teacher."

There was a pause, then Draco spoke.

"_You_ were one of _them_? _You_?"

"Yes, I was," replied Harry simply.

"I..." Draco faltered. There was nothing to say.

&

Draco lay on the grass, deep in thought, with Daphne nestled at his side like a breathing decoration. The detention

with Potter had managed to leave Draco, who was normally secure in the belief that everything he did or thought

was inherently marvellous, rather uncertain. Draco doubted he would ever stop hating the ship scum; it was too

deeply ingrained, too much of a learned response to ever be switched off fully. But his father had always said that

the mark of a true man was the ability to admit his mistakes, to learn and to grow. Maybe, just maybe, he thought to

himself, I might not be as right as I thought I was... Just then, Daphne moaned slightly and wriggled a little, sinking

further and further into sleep, a contented smile dangling on her lips. Draco had to fight every fibre of his body to

stop himself pushing her away.

"Drake! How was your date with Mr Potter?"

Draco looked up. There stood Blaise. He smiled.

"Worse than an hour at the dentist's."

Blaise grinned.

"That good?"

"Better."

"Listen," Blaise said, taking a seat next to Draco, "Are we still on for Friday night?"

"Who else is coming?"

"Vince, Greg, Theodore, Milicent--" the list was interrupted by the sounds of Daphne stirring.

"What's going on... darling Blaise!" Daphne cried in a melodramatic burst, and flung her arms round Blaise's neck.

Draco couldn't hide his annoyance.

"Daph! You regained consciousness just for me?"

"Of course darling, who else?"

Draco rolled his eyes, tucked his hands behind his head and lay down. What had he done to deserve Daphne? It

seemed to be her life's mission to annoy him into submission, worm her way off his payroll and into his hand in

marriage. Draco shivered inwardly. It was bad enough having to put on the façade in school, but marriage? That

spelt out a whole lifetime of lies. Plus, she would want kids. He would want an heir. They'd have to... Draco couldn't

carry that particular thought any further. It was too skin-crawlingly awful to contemplate. He closed his eyes, and

longed for some kind of peace. It was hard to get any with Daphne's touches still hot on his body, and the memory

of Potter's words drifting through his head.

"- so are you coming Daphne darling?" Blaise's voice broke Draco's train of thought.

"Of course I'll come! I'll bring the girls!"

"Where exactly are we going, Blaise?" Draco asked lazily.

"Boujis, then on to China White. Anyway, thanks to your boycott we can leave early -"

"The boycott's off."

"What?"

"It's off. As of this Friday. There's no point sacrificing my A-level results to prove a point."

"Oh," said Blaise, a little surprised, "Okay...Well, I... I suppose you're right. I'll tell the others."

&

_They lay together, looking at the sky, fingers entwined, hearts beating almost in unison. Harry sighed. He _

_had never known true happiness until there was Tom. _

_"Harry?"_

_"Hmm?_

_"I want us to stay like this forever..."_

_"Me too."_

_"Do you swear?"_

_"I swear."_

_They moved even closer together, watching the clouds drift by, blissful in each others arms. A butterfly _

_floated past, resplendent in orange and gold and brown, like a living painting. Harry smiled at it. It was _

_beautiful. Everything was beautiful. Tom grinned at him, then, quick as a flash, caught the butterfly and _

_crushed it in his hands. Harry moved away, completely taken aback._

_"What did you do that for?"_

_"What?" Tom smiled, seductive as ever. "It's just an insect."_

_"That's not the point. Why did you have to kill it?"_

_"Because I felt like it," Tom said, and before Harry had a chance to reply Tom kissed him ferociously, and _

_everything was forgotten... _

Harry opened his eyes wide and shuddered. Sybil was to blame. Ever since her prediction, the Tom dreams had

become an on-and-off feature of the little sleep he could snatch before the insomnia set in. Harry breathed in deeply,

tried to relax. How many times would he have to reassure himself that Sybil was wrong? How many times would he

have to stop looking over his shoulder? It was time to forget. He was safe here. Tom was a distant memory, a part

of his life he would never have to face again.

&

Cornelius Fudge, head of admissions, eyed the man before him. He was far too handsome, far too rich, extremely

well educated (Eton prep, a Grecian at Christ's Hospital, on to Cambridge for a masters in Business Studies), his

father owned two thirds of Hertfordshire and a formidable set of stately homes, his mother was thirtieth in line to the

throne. In other words, the man made a perfect addition to the world of Rowling's. But his eyes... Cornelius was not

a superstitious man, but he somehow felt as though staring into the man's eyes for too long would leave him stained,

cursed.

"Tell me," Cornelius squeaked, then cleared his throat. "Why did you leave your job in the city for something as

thankless as schoolwork? It seems you were on the path to becoming a billionaire."

The man laughed humourlessly.

"Well Mr Fudge," he said, his voice smoky, dark. "Being rich is no match for the feeling of achievement one gets

when one has given something back to the community."

"Ah, I see... Well, thank you for your time," Cornelius said hurriedly, eager for the man to move along.

"My pleasure." The man smiled a smile which did not quite reach his eyes.

"Keep in mind there are plenty of other applicants. This is a highly sought-after position. I'll be in touch in a fortnight

to let you know whether you're the lucky one."

"Thank you, Mr Fudge," said the man, and stood up after Cornelius. They shook hands, Cornelius avoiding his gaze

like the plague.

"Goodbye Mr... what was the name again?"

"Riddle," the man smiled, "Tom Riddle."


	6. Chapter 6

**a/n - thank you to gbheart, dairygirl, , kittymojo, tiapotter16, kyra1 (multiple joygasms woo!), betania, crowley black, greeneyedcatdragon, natzno1, mugglebornfairy (the paragraphs are rather rough, aren't they? i've been trying to indent on this thing for ages but its just not happening...) and strega for reviewing the last chapter! and special thanks go out to dairygirl for making me remember just who I'm writing this story for :) apologies for the quality of this chapter, it was written rather late at night **

- 6 -

There was something intoxicating about Harry. He was the strongest drug Tom had ever done, and Tom had done

plenty of drugs in his time. He had done drugs. Drugs hadn't done him. Tom knew the importance of self-control,

discipline in pleasure. He lived his life meticulously, feeling little, thinking lots. He was too strong for addiction, the

undignified _humanity _of the condition, the filth of it, the cost. But then there was Harry... That spark of a man, who

had somehow rendered Tom blind with a terrifyingly fierce passion, a passion which only seemed to loom larger in

the years they had spent apart. Had Tom been cruel to him? Yes. Had he driven him away? Of course. Destruction

was Tom's unborn twin; it walked with him silently, invisible and inextricable. Destruction was all Tom knew. The

hearts of others beat for love, Tom's beat for pain - the frantic squeal of a dying pig, the stillness of a strangled cat,

the look on his lover's face as he twisted the knife in. That gasp. Those tears. The sheer darkness of it all.

&

The silence in the classroom was somehow pleasant - it lacked the heavy mood, the unspoken threats which had

punctuated Harry and Malfoy's previous meetings. Malfoy was looking out the window, probably wishing he was

out there with his gang and, Harry noted, with the sun on his face and a dreamy countenance replacing his usual

smirk, he looked as though butter wouldn't melt. Which was utterly besides the point. The boy was an arrogant so-

and-so, no matter how angelic he might appear in sunlight. Draco's thoughts were running in the same vein as

Harry's. Yes, Mr Potter may have triggered the weakness in him to some degree, but he was still insufferable, if

perhaps understandably so. And that was that.

&

"I never pictured you as a Dylan Thomas fan," Malfoy murmured suddenly, almost to himself.

"What?"

"I said, I never pictured you as a Dylan Thomas fan," Draco enunciated, as if he were the teacher and Harry a

particularly slow student.

"I heard what you said, I'm just not sure why you said it."

"Because it's either talk to you or die of boredom. And Malfoys don't die of boredom. They die of riding accidents,

or assassination. Something noble. Unless you're my grandfather, in which case your death involves an unfortunate

incident with a banana skin." Draco hated the sound of himself babbling - to Potter of all people - but anything was

better than an hour of total silence.

Harry smiled inwardly. Draco could be rather witty inbetween all the scowling.

"Okay. Well, what's your idea of a Thomas fan?"

"Someone a bit more... tortured. Someone with a bit more angst."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I must have mistaken you for someone I told the story of my childhood to yesterday," Harry said

amusedly. Draco shook his head.

"Are you trying to be sarcastic, Mr Potter? Because you can't quite carry it off. Not with that hair, anyway."

Harry burst out laughing at that, and his laughter somehow caught on to Malfoy. They both paused. The strangeness

of the situation was beginning to settle on them.

"I think a truce is in order, don't you?"

"Alright then. Truce. But only because you know my secr..." Draco trailed off. The elephant had trundled back in the

room. There was a slight pause, a space for both of them to think their way round the issue. Harry spoke first.

"I know no-one likes confiding in their teachers, no matter how much we ask you to, but... really. You can tell me."

And somehow, in some strange, irrational way, Draco knew he could.

&

"It started when I was little. I loved art, and poetry, and music, and ballet - which obviously meant - my father

thought that... he thought it meant I might turn out... wrong. Anyway, I learnt to toughen up, to be aggressive and to

hate and to be angry, because anger's a bit of a numbing agent when it comes to emotions. Anger pushes everything

to the side. You don't know you're drowning when you're angry. And I was the perfect son... I am the perfect son.

It's just... I've got a weakness. That's the reason I need Daphne. To hide that weakness. I know it's wrong but I

can't help myself. Feelings, you know. They're a bitch to control."

Draco inhaled sharply, unsure whether to continue.

"You can tell me, Draco," Harry said softly, aware for the first time that underneath the bluster and bravado which

came with the aristocracy act, there was a terribly, terribly scared little boy.

"I... The first... The first time I laid eyes on... on Blaise... I thought he was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen,"

Draco said quickly, his head lowered. Blaise wasn't exactly the name he had in mind for that particular sentence, but

it would do. Harry nodded in understanding.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of. Honestly. It may seem like a curse, or a stigma, whatever you want to call it, but it's

the way you are, and no amount of fake girlfriends is ever going to change that."

"But my father..."

"... Your father is not you. Trying to live your life by someone else's standards is unhealthy, it's unfair and it's... it's

just not going to happen, Draco, no matter how hard you try."

Draco paid no attention to the tears invading his eyes, threatening to spill.

"I like girls, but I don't... and I really should..." he said, voice wavering.

"It may seem that way now, but --"

"-- Oh how the hell would you know!" Draco blurted out, suddenly enraged. "Society doesn't hate people like _you_!

It doesn't think of _you _as perverted or twisted or disgusting! Your father doesn't compare people like _you_ to

animals! You have _no idea_!"

"I do," said Harry simply. "I know exactly what it's like. Feeling like you're different. Wondering --"

"-- We're not talking about your childhood here, sir," Draco interrupted.

"Of course we're not."

Draco snorted.

"So you're saying what? That you're queer?"

"I prefer to say gay. It's much kinder sounding."

And for the second time in as many days, Harry Potter rendered Draco Malfoy utterly and completely speechless.

&

"Give it back!"

The three older boys laughed at the little runt's pleas. They'd never come across an easier target - Euan

Abercrombie, thirteen years old, dreadfully skinny and only four feet tall, with ugly, cheap glasses and holes in his

uniform. The boy was a bully's wet dream. Ship scum to the extreme.

"Give it back! Please!" the note of desperation in Euan's voice was fuel to the boys' fire. They tossed his bag to each

other, this way and that, making sure it was always just out of his reach.

"Please!" Euan cried. Inside he was burning with rage. Just because he wasn't as rich as them... It wasn't fair. They

tortured him, just because they had more money than he did. The bag game would go on for ages. It always did.

&

Draco walked, deep in thought, paying hardly any attention to where he was or where he was going. How could

one person have messed his head up so badly in such a short space of time? First he had been contemplating a

change of attitude towards the ship scum, and now this? Opening his heart up to a man he should despise? And he

was gay? Mr Potter, gay? So many emotions hurtled about in Draco's mind that he felt almost certain he would

explode from the sheer, unbridled pressure of them all. It was the weakness that had done it. Mr Potter's eyes. The

way they looked in sunlight. They had clouded his judgement, hypnotised him, forced him to actually say words he

thought would never leave his body. Christ, those eyes... A sharp, desperate cry of "please!" jolted

Draco back to reality. He looked ahead. Three sixth formers - Lucian Bole, Miles Bletchley and Marcus Flint to be

precise - were tossing a tiny ship scum's bag to and fro, and giggling at the little boy's useless attempts at catching it.

"Draco! Fancy joining in?" Flint shouted, a great big grin planted on his squat, angular face.

Draco smirked. This would be perfect for ridding himself of any Potter-related anxieties. He quickened his pace,

ready for a laugh... then looked at the boy in the middle of the bag-throwing. No one heard Draco gasp but he did,

if only slightly. All he could see in the midst of those three huge, jeering forms was a young Mr Potter, tiny and

defenseless, suffering in silence. _'Homeless Harry', __the pov who couldn't even afford a penny __sweet'. _Without

thinking, Draco marched up to the gang, tore the backpack from Marcus' hands and tossed it to the boy, who

clutched it for dear life and scuttled off as fast as his legs could take him.

"What. The. Hell?"

Draco looked up. The three boys were unabashedly flabbergasted. Malfoy? Helping ship scum? Had hell frozen

over yet?

"I..." Draco trailed off. He had to think of a good explanation for this, and fast. They were waiting.

"I... Don't you think we're getting a little old for the old bag toss, gentlemen?"

The three boys looked at each other, then at Malfoy, still in shock.

"I... I've got to go..." And with that, Draco was off. _Jesus_, he thought to himself, _I hope Potter knows what he's _

_doing to me..._

&

On her way to tell off some sixth formers for harassing a second year, Nymphadora Tonks noticed something very

odd indeed. Perhaps odd wasn't the right word. The right word would probably be something like 'astounding' or

'miraculous', but odd was the first thing which came to mind. It was Draco Malfoy, springing to the aid of the

boy embroiled in the sixth formers' silly games. At first, Nymphadora had assumed they must be rehearsing a play,

because Malfoy wouldn't be caught dead helping anyone, let alone a scholarship child... But the speed at which the

boy had taken flight of the situation led her to conclude that this was no play and that Malfoy had either taken leave

of his senses or found God. Nymphadora took out her mobile, speed-dialled Harry's number and waited for him to

answer. When he did, she couldn't hide her astonishment.

"Harry!" she whispered rather loudly, "You'll never believe what I've just seen!"

**next chapter - cornelius fudge receives some rather bad news, and drarry somehow manage to end up in the same nightclub...**


	7. Chapter 7

**a/n - sorry this chapter's a bit late! I've been terribly busy with uni applications... Massive thanks go out to dairygirl, GreenEyedCatDragon, ss, the wykkyd (that is high praise indeed! thank you!), kittymojo, Kyra1, emeraud.silver, AkumaMementoMori, Muggleborn Fairy, gbheart, Kyla Mizuki, Strega (Dylan Thomas, woo!), Betania (aww! hope you're better, and I'm glad you enjoyed the chapter) aaaaand Crowley Black! **

**IN OTHER NEWS! You'll never guess who I saw at a cashpoint in South Ken station yesterday! (...drumroll...) The guy who played Tom Riddle in Chamber of Secrets! Unluckily I didn't get to talk to him as by the time I realised who he was, he had gone, which was sooooo annoying... But I can officially say that 'Tom Riddle' and I made eye contact! woo yeh! **

**anyway, this was a really hard chapter to write for some reason (probably because it's so bloody long!) let me know your thoughts/advice/etc :)**

- 7 -

The only thing which made Harry happier than Nymphadora's news was the near-immediate effect it had on

Rowling's. The invisible sign which told the children to stick to their own had not disappeared altogether, but its

size had diminished considerably. According to Sirius, Justin Finch-Fletchley - a jaw-droppingly posh sixth

former - and Amelia Bones, a scholarship girl, had been spotted tentatively holding hands in public. Peregrin

Derrick, heir to the Derrick fortune, had lent Ron Weasley a pen in History. Pansy Parkinson had actually

congratulated Hermione Granger on doing well in her clarinet exam - which had roused immense suspicion in

Granger, who knew that attitudes did not change overnight. Of course, they didn't. Most of the sixth-formers

were merely play-acting, following Draco's lead. It seemed that being nice to the ship scum had become the new

in thing, but given time, it might lead to a permanent change of attitude. Somewhere in the east wing of

Rowling's, Mr Dumbledore was smiling to himself. It seemed that Mr Potter could have been right after all.

&

Harry entered his dreaded Friday afternoon sixth form lesson with a little more hope than was the norm. Draco

had promised to drop the boycott, and upon opening the classroom door, Harry knew that the boy had been

true to his word. All sixteen of his students were sat at their desks in perfect silence, waiting to be taught. Careful

not to let his happiness show, Harry strode over to the whiteboard coolly, wrote 'Wuthering Heights" on it, and

turned to the class.

"Now I know some of you have missed a few lessons so I've made a pack for each of you, detailing what you

missed. I expect all the homework in it to be done for next lesson." He paused, waiting for an uproar which

never came. Relieved, he continued.

"Before we get down to some Chaucer, I was thinking the other night that I don't really know what type of

books any of you like. So I thought I should find out. Now this," he pointed to the board, "is the greatest book

ever written in the English language, ever. Well, according to me at least. So I'd like each of you to tell me what

your favourite book is, or your favourite author. Let's start with..." Hermione was obviously bursting to answer.

The girl couldn't help herself. Harry smiled and nodded at her.

"Well, I agree with you, sir. I've always loved Wuthering Heights - it's the most passionate, exciting, tragic

book..."

"It's bloody boring, that's what it is," Draco drawled.

"Oh? And what's your favourite book, Malfoy? 'The Very Hungry Caterpillar'?"

The scholarships roared with laughter. Harry glanced at Draco, praying he wouldn't rise to the bait...

"Lord Of The Flies," Draco said calmly.

Hermione blinked. She had expected a cutting remark.

"Well... that's an amazing piece of work," she said cautiously, expecting Malfoy to turn on her at any moment.

"It is. Much more interesting than all that useless gallavanting on the moors that you and Mr Potter seem to find

so fascinating," he said, and Hermione couldn't read any malice in tone. She smiled slightly.

"Pig's head on a stick versus destructive passion. I know which one I'd rather read about."

"You can't just condense Lord of the Flies to 'pig's head on a stick'." said Draco rather indignantly, "It's about

the evil of man. It's about the corruption of innocence."

"Well, Wuthering Heights isn't just 'gallavanting on moors', is it?"

Draco paused for thought, then shrugged.

"I suppose you're right."

A fleet of eyebrows were raised across the classroom.

"You're... agreeing with me?"

"Well," Draco checked his nails, "why shouldn't I?"

Harry couldn't help but smile.

&

It seemed that Draco had somehow managed to change mood entirely in the ten minutes between Harry's English

class and detention. The calm air of intelligence he sported before had faded entirely from view. This Draco,

detention Draco, was restless and agitated, then dead-eyed and sour-faced, then agitated again, and so on and

so forth. It seemed he had something to say, something dreadfully important which, at the moment, was being

chewed on and swallowed. Harry knew he had to tread carefully. One false move, and the trust which Draco

had somehow felt fit to place in his hands would be snatched away.

"Something on your mind?" he asked gently.

Draco bit his lip and narrowed his eyes. After a considerable pause, he decided to speak.

"I need you to tell me everything you know."

Harry put down his pen and gave Draco a look of patient acceptance.

"Everything I know about...?"

"About... you know... and don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like... like a teacher!"

Harry laughed heartily, which eased out a reluctant smile from Draco.

"Alright then, I'll try my best. Just tell me what you need to know."

"Ugh!" cried Draco in frustration, "Do I have to spell it out for you! I want to know about... about being...

about being gay, okay?"

"There! It's not so hard to say, is it?"

Draco gave Harry a half-hearted sneer, which somehow managed to melt into a smile.

"Tell me everything. Well, not _everything. _Just the basics."

"Well... there's not much to tell, really. It's just like being straight, I suppose..."

"Except straight couples don't have to worry about being beaten up for holding hands in the street," Draco

muttered, a bitter edge sharpening his tone.

"Well, that's true. But you can't live your life in fear, Draco. There's a certain amount of risk in everything you do.

Everything. Crossing the street, getting in a car, even going to sleep. And the same applies to falling in love. It's a

risk. But it's a risk you'd have to be mad not to take."

&

Part Two

&

The weekend had arrived. With the weekend came London, and for Harry, London brought Oliver. Mr

Oliver Wood, who had been Harry's knight in shining armour, who had woken him from a living nightmare, who

had given Harry a shoulder to cry on when he needed it most. Oliver, who Harry, despite his best efforts, just

couldn't seem to love... Harry sighed deeply, casting aside his pen. Trying to concentrate on marking papers was

useless. The time had come to tell him. They couldn't go on as they had been - Oliver deserved better.

"Monsieur Potter!" cried Fleur Delacour, a terribly beautiful young French teacher, shaking Harry out of his

thoughts, "We are going to _Boojee_!"

"Boojee? What?"

"_Boojee_! You've been zere, no?"

Harry looked at her, puzzled.

"Boojee?... Wait. You're not talking about Boujis, are you? Please tell me you're not..."

"Of course I am, mon petit pois!"

"Fleur, this weekend isn't exactly going to be a barrel of laughs for me..."

"Exactement! If you go to Boojee, at least you will 'ave sumsing to look forward to, no?"

Harry sighed. When Fleur was enraptured with an idea it was useless to object.

"It's too short notice..."

"Yes! For me too it is short notice! But we go! Tonight! You, me, Nymphadora and Sirius!"

"Fleur, I really can't. I really, really can't. I'm sorry. I can't."

At this, Fleur turned on the largest, cutest puppy dog eyes Harry had ever seen.

"Oh, don't..."

"Please?"

"Stop batting your eyelashes, they'll fall off."

"Please?"

"Oh, for God's sake..."

"Please?"

"Oh, alright! But I apologise for being a miserable git in advance."

&

Throughout the course of Friday evening, Draco had been strangely subdued, as if he was waiting half-heartedly

for some wondrous thing that would never arrive. Normally, he would be first in the taxi to one club or

another, first in the door, first on the dancefloor, first to talk to someone new, but today... Draco lingered behind

with a terribly un-Malfoyish reluctance. He looked sad. Melancholy, even. No amount of coaxing from the

group would lift him out of his listlessness. And upon arrival at Boujis, he simply sat, staring at the door as if it

were a lifeline slowly sinking away. Milicent had seen that look before. It was the look of someone terribly,

hopelessly in lust - which didn't make sense. Daphne was obviously Draco's one and only. Milicent inwardly

sighed. She'd had far too much time to contemplate Draco's mood this evening. Nothing remotely resembling fun

had happened thus far - no witty repartee, no bad dancing, no misguided displays of affection... nothing. When

Draco was up, they were all up, and when he was down, they all suffered. Milicent stirred her cocktail, painfully

aware that whilst this was her first drink of the evening, Draco had already polished off a bottle of Moet. It

wasn't like him to drink in excess - he hated not being in control... Just then, Milicent noticed a subtle but wildly

joyful spark ignite suddenly in his eyes. She grinned. Perhaps the evening wouldn't be such a washout after all.

"Look, why don't I catch up with you lot at China?"

Milicent frowned. She hadn't been expecting that.

"Wouldn't it make more sense to go together, Drake?" Daphne pouted, obviously miffed.

"No it wouldn't, Daph," he snapped, and Milicent drew a sharp breath, stunned by the ice in his voice.

There couldn't be trouble in paradise for the golden couple, could there?

"Draco, we can't leave without you --"

"Yes you can. Now go."

Wordlessly, Draco's gang left the table, knowing full well that they weren't wanted.

&

Having spent most of his time at Boujis being a bit of a miserable git, it came as a something of a shock to

Harry that the sight of Draco Malfoy ambling in his direction with bloodshot, glazed eyes left him rather...

relieved? Happy, even?

"Fancy seeing you here, sir," Draco drawled as he squeezed himself between Harry and Sirius, still coherent

despite being terribly, irredeemably drunk.

"Malfoy! Isn't it past your bedtime?" Sirius asked amusedly, but Draco didn't seem to hear him.

"Mr Potter, I have to talk you. In private," he said quietly, suddenly very earnest, very serious.

"I don't think that's such a good idea, Draco. We'll talk at school, okay? When you're a little more focused."

"But I need your help. It's about the homework you set us. I'm having trouble with the Chaucer...ness..."

"Oh... erm..." Harry looked back at Fleur, who shook her head vigorously.

"Wouldn't you rather spend the night having fun with your friends instead of talking about Chaucer with a boring

old teacher?"

"I sent them to Chinawhite. I'll meet them there. Come outside sir, it'll only take five minutes...," Draco gave

him the same puppy dog eyes that Fleur had used so effectively, and Harry couldn't contain his laughter.

Nymphadora raised an eyebrow. It was the first time Harry had cracked a smile all evening.

"Alright, just five minutes." Harry turned to the other teachers. "I'll be right back."

&

"So," Harry began, "What are you having trouble with, Draco?"

Draco leaned against a wall, closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around his chest.

"It's cold out here isn't it? Ah, the joys of the English weather..."

Harry smiled softly. There definitely was something angelic about Draco's appearance; it was undeniable. He

would make someone very happy someday.

"It is a bit nippy isn't it? Anyway, what were you having trouble with?"

"Oh, I don't know..."

Harry frowned.

"You don't know?"

Draco's eyes opened suddenly.

"When I told you I thought Blaise was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, I lied. It was you."

The power of those three simple words unleashed a kaleidoscope of butterfiles in Harry's stomach and a torrent

of blood in his cheeks. Christ. Lord Almighty. What was the hell he meant to say? He frantically racked his brain,

trying to think back on his teacher training... What was he meant to do? What was he meant to say? What in

God's name was he meant to --

"Say something, then," Draco yawned, apparently unphased by the strangeness of the situation.

"W-why did you say that?" Harry stammered, then inwardly kicked himself. What a stupid question!

"You told me to take a risk. So I took it," Draco said, his voice low, lilting.

"Yes, but I didn't mean... Look, Draco, I... I'm flattered and everything but... I... You're a student. I'm a teacher.

I have a responsibility towards you - a duty of care. That means I have to offer you the same sort of care as a

parent would."

Draco's eyes lowered. No words could have described his feelings better than that single, tiny movement.

"I'm sorry," Harry continued, "But you have to understand. You confided in me, and that's fantastic. That took a

lot of courage, Draco. But it doesn't mean that your sexuality begins and ends with me. Meet other gay people

your age, have fun, experiment - you never know, the guy of your dreams might be round the corner. And he

won't be a hopelessly deluded English teacher."

Draco smiled softly.

"You remember that?"

Harry returned the smile.

"How could I forget?"

There was a pause, then Draco piped up with, "Mr Potter?"

"Yes?"

"I finish school for good next June. Just thought I'd remind you."

Harry laughed, shook his head.

"Come on, let's get back inside. And remember what I said, won't you?"

"I will."

&

"Rowling's Admissions Department, Head of Admissions speaking," Cornelius said, in the particular drone

one uses for the dreadfully routine.

"Cornelius? It's Archibald," said the voice down the other end.

"Archibald, old chap! Good to hear from you!"

"I'm afraid I come bearing some rather... It's terribly strange, Cornelius, and terribly sad."

Cornelius froze. Somehow he knew what Archibald was about to say...

"... strangest thing, but six of the most promising applicants for the assistant deputy head position have been

involved in an accident. Three died just last night. The other three are critical."

Cornelius closed his eyes. My God, he thought, my dear God...

"Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear. What happened?"

"The six of them were attending a workshop in Warwickshire when the building caught fire. Twenty people were

injured, seven died."

"Oh dear. Terribly sorry to hear that. I'll send letters of condolence to their families as soon as I get the chance..."

"Thank God Mr Riddle decided not to attend at the last minute, eh? I suppose he'll be getting the position

automatically."

Cornelius paled.

"Yes. I suppose he will be."

**next chapter - draco takes harry's advice a little too literally, and a certain someone starts their new job at Rowling's...**


	8. Chapter 8

**a/n - sorry i've taken so long to update! uni applications are taking over my life... anyways, massive thanks go out to GreenEyedCatDragon, Saiyou-the-lover (best. review. ever!), Betania (have no fear, my dear - Draco/Tom would be... Drom? Traco? it would never work), gbheart, Crowley Black, Muggleborn Fairy, emeraud.silver, Strega (lmao at 'Fizzy McArthur' - look out for my little homage to him), Rock and Sarcasm (please don't die!), MyOriginalIntent, summertime201, HecateDeMort, storywriter10791 and plasticblue for the lovely reviews! again, this chapter was written at 3am, so forgive its inadequacies... **

**...unleash the angst!**

- 8 -

_It had been three days of searching with no joy before Harry Potter was finally found, shivering and _

_teary-eyed underneath an oak tree in Ravenscourt Park._

_"Harry!" Oliver cried, running up to the man he had been losing sleep over for the past two nights, _

_"We've been worried sick! Tom's out of his mind with worry!"_

_Harry looked up at Oliver with blank, lifeless eyes, then suddenly started laughing uncontrollably, _

_guffawing and howling like a man possessed, tears streaming down his cheeks._

_"Harry..." Oliver faltered, his stomach sinking, "What..."_

_Harry was far too sleep-deprived, thirsty, hungry and emotionally wrecked to care about the _

_repercussions of telling someone the secret he had spent the last two years trying to cover up._

_"Oliver," Harry said, giving him a small, sad smile, "He's killing me."_

_"What? I don't..."_

_Oliver was interrupted by the sight of Harry lifting up his t-shirt to reveal a stomach rippling with scars, _

_bruises and puncture wounds, a large, white bandage in the middle standing out like a daisy amongst a _

_sea__ of violets. There was silence for a while, then Oliver knelt down to Harry's level and _

_carefully removed the bandage. Underneath it was a series of deep, mahogany coloured cuts, a horrific _

_tattoo spelling the word 'mine' in crude, broad strokes. _

_"Oh my God..." Oliver breathed, unable to conceal his shock. _

_Harry gave a little shrug, a winning smile, then burst into tears. Oliver quickly drew Harry into his arms, _

_careful not to hold too tight._

_"I'm sorry..." he whispered, "I'm so sorry... I'm so, so sorry..."_

_"He's killing me," Harry said simply, breaking the hug. Oliver looked up at the sky for a moment, let _

_the tears sink back, then took Harry's hand in his own gently. _

_"Come with me. I'll protect you." _

_"He'll kill you."_

_Oliver smiled confidently._

_"I don't thi--"_

_"He'll kill you, and he'll enjoy doing it. He'll watch you dying and he'll smile. He'll sit there and smile. So _

_just go. Let him find me. I don't care anymore."_

_Oliver was about to reply when something caught his eye. Two huge men with an extremely familiar logo _

_emblazoned on their t-shirts were approaching rapidly. _

_"Harry, he's sent his heavies. We have to go. Now."_

_Harry stared ahead as if he hadn't heard a word._

_"Look Harry, just come with me. I'll get us a flat somewhere - he'll never find us. You can make it. Do _

_you understand? You can make it. But only if you let me help you. Run with me, Harry..."_

&

They had run together, bought their little flat in Shoreditch and lived for a year in a rather glacial form of

harmony; they had lived a lie, but it was a loving lie. Deep down, Oliver had always known that Harry could

never love him the way he had loved Tom once upon a time, and that fact, no matter how much he tried to make

light of it, hurt deeply. So when Harry came back from Rowling's with the speech he had long been expecting to

hear, Oliver, despite dying a little death inside, had simply reeled out the response he had long been preparing to

say.

"Harry," he had said, "I know you've always felt like you had to stay with me --"

Harry had objected at this point, but Oliver continued regardless.

"-- The thing you never understood, and the thing I was always too afraid to say, is that I just want you to be

happy. I want you to find the man that's going to make you smile just because he's walked into the room. The

man that you catch yourself marvelling about when you should be concentrating on Eastenders. The man that

catches your breath, that makes your heart beat a million times an hour. I want you to find your angel, Harry, and

he's not me. So go out and find him."

Harry smiled sadly, and somehow Oliver was reminded of that day in the park.

"You know," Harry mumbled as they shared a hug, "We're far too similar, you and I..."

Oliver had smiled. Yes, he mumbled back, we are. We truly are.

&

Most of Draco's Saturday morning was spent in the unwelcome company of Sir Ghasty McHangover, who

visited those who should have known better, and Madam Loose-Lips, who occasioned the houses of those who

had inadvertently blurted out something incriminating whilst steaming drunk. Draco groaned, and held a hand to

his forehead. He was hot. In more ways than one. He smirked lazily at his own little joke, until the memories of

last night fell down upon him yet again. He had told Mr Potter that he was beautiful. Dear God. At the very least

he could have told Potter he fancied him without sounding like a complete and utter pansy. And, to top it all off,

he had been told in no uncertain terms to find someone his own age. Draco scowled, dropped an Alka-Seltzer in

his water and watched it fizz. After he and Harry had gone back into Boujis, Draco told him to forget what he'd

just said as he was drunk and he didn't mean a word of it. Harry had smiled and said, in that annoying teacherly

tone, that it was already forgotten. But it wasn't. It had been said, he had been rejected and that was that.

Perhaps the only course of action was to take Potter's advice and find himself a consolation prize.

&

_Well then_, thought Draco, as he sipped a cup of Earl Grey, _in order to 'experiment', I'll have to find some _

_gays, won't I?_ But where were they? In nightclubs? No, Draco couldn't go that far. He would get spotted, and

the rumour would spread in a chain which inevitably ended with his father. He would have to find someone from

school. But who was definitely queer? There wasn't a single Rowling's pupil who was stupid enough to come out

- they knew they'd be ripped apart if they did. However, there was Michael Corner in the year below, who had

a decidedly feminine spring in his step, and Terence Higgs, who loved flowers, fashion and The Smiths. Then

there was Cedric Diggory, a man with the face and body of a Greek God, whose gaze tended to linger on

Draco despite his involvement with a girl by the name of Cho Chang. Draco chewed his lower lip, furrowed his

brow slightly. He had hoped for a while that his first real kiss might be with someone other than Michael or

Terence or Cedric.

&

"Ah! Welcome to my office," said Mr Dumbledore, smiling serenely as the new assistant deputy head stepped in,

looking the picture of confidence.

"It's an honour to be here, sir."

"Oh, I'll have none of that 'sir' business. Albus. Call me Albus. And your name again?"

"Tom Riddle. It's a pleasure to meet you, Albus."

No one would ever have noticed the fact that, whilst continuing his idle chatter with the Riddle man, Albus was

struck by an uncertainty he had never known before. His strange gift - his weird, perhaps even miraculous ability

to see lies in colours - worked on everyone from toddlers to grandmothers... but somehow, it wasn't working on

Riddle. Albus grimaced inwardly, somehow managing to retain an outward veneer of perfect serenity. Were his

abilities getting weaker with old age, perhaps? Was it the fault of the man? Was he --

"... Albus? Albus?"

Albus looked up, startled. The man was waiting patiently for Albus to speak.

"Ah, yes, dreadfully sorry," Albus smiled, "Old age, you see. Takes its toll on the concentration. What did you

just say?"

"Ah, I was just wondering when I'm going to meet the other members of staff," Riddle said, smiling innocuously.

"Oh that, yes. Well, we'll have a coffee and biscuits afternoon today, so you can get to know everyone a bit

better. Harry Potter's the newest staff member - he'll probably take you under his wing, show you around.

Lovely fellow."

"Harry Potter? The name rings a bell..." said Riddle, a curiously intense look building in his eyes. "Ah yes! We

were classmates at Christ's Hospital. I must say, he wasn't very nice in those days - at least not to me. Used to

be a bit of a bully, if I'm perfectly honest."

"Oh? That doesn't sound very much like Harry to me..."

"Well, I'm sure he's changed since then. He'd have had to, to be working here," Riddle said with a blunt honesty

which made Dumbledore smile.

"I must say, I never knew Harry had a dark side," he murmured.

"I never knew he had a light side," Riddle quipped, and they both laughed.

"Well, well, well," said Dumbledore, "I'm looking forward to your reunion."

Riddle smiled.

"So am I."

&

Harry's fundraising group meetings had gone from staid, polite functions to wild, exuberant gatherings in the

space of a few weeks, thanks mostly to Draco's sudden, bewildering change of heart. The divide between the

children seemed to have finally lifted, replaced by a boundless energy which had seen the school charity fund

rise from a meagre five hundred pounds to three thousand. It was amazing what could be achieved when

differences were set aside and bridges built, Harry thought to himself. And now, as he watched little Euan

Abercrombie huddled together in a corner discussing cake sales with Malcolm Baddock, the formerly hostile son

of a millionaire, Harry felt a surge of pride burst within him. He couldn't contain a smile.

"Mr Potter!" Laura Madley, a bespectacled second year, shouted from the side of the room, "Can we do a pizza

sale next Tuesday?"

"Tuesday's fully booked, I'm afraid - how about Wednesday?"

"Alright, sir. Make sure you try my pepperoni and custard topping - it's legendary!"

Harry laughed, then once the girl had turned away, sighed with contentment. Operation Student Unity was off to

a flying start, the school fund was overflowing, the -- Harry stopped thinking. There was a man at the window,

smiling coldly at him. Tom. It was Tom, no more than two feet away, and his eyes burned with rage and lust and

the intense need for pain, the need to see Harry suffer... Before Harry could cry out in shock, the man walked

away, and Harry was left with the entirely unsettling notion that he might just be losing his mind, hallucinating over

the face of his abusive ex. Tom couldn't be here. He couldn't be. God wasn't that cruel. _I'm __seeing things, _

Harry thought to himself, remembering to breathe. The ordeal was over. It had to be.

&

"You look tired," Harry noted, glancing up from his newspaper to greet Draco, who had just stumbled in, looking

zombie-like and swollen-lipped.

"I've just hunted down and snogged the life out of Cedric Diggory, Terence Higgins and Michael-bloody-

Corner," Draco said nonchalantly as he took his seat, "Of course I'm tired."

In any other circumstance Harry would have chuckled at this remark, but the memory of Tom's face still hung

heavy in his thoughts, and he could do nothing but frown.

"Well," he said quietly, "I'm glad to see you're becoming more comfortable with things. But remember there's a

line - anything more than kissing..."

"...is off limits, don't worry, I've read the school rules..."

Harry gave a little 'hmm', then continued reading his paper. Draco's eyes widened with incredulity.

"Well, aren't you going to ask me how it went?"

Harry set his paper down, and looked at Draco.

"Don't you think that's a little... personal?"

"No, not really. Anyway, Cedric was the best kisser out of them all. He nibbled my lip a lot. Nice..." Draco

trailed off, obviously enraptured by the memory. Harry was unaware that he had begun to clench his teeth.

"Corner was awful though," Draco continued, "Slobber, slobber, slobber. Yuck. Terence was alright, but

Cedric? Rapturous, heavenly, divine, transcendent, amazing, fantas--"

"-- That's enough, Draco," Harry muttered.

"You're meant to take an interest, sir."

"Yes I am. And I'm interested your wellbeing. What I'm not interested in is your love life, however thrilling it may

seem to you," he said abruptly, leaving the usually collected Draco rather rattled.

"Well sor-ree," he muttered bitterly.

Harry sighed, ran a hand through his hair.

"I shouldn't have snapped like that. But Draco, you have to understand, I'm still your teacher. Teachers and

kissing just don't mix."

&

Draco flopped onto his bed and let out a melancholy sigh. He had lied. Kissing Cedric hadn't been

'rapturous' or 'heavenly', or any other adjective he had reeled off to Mr Potter. He hadn't felt anything in

particular. Well, there had been a stirring of sorts, but that was child's play. Facts were facts. The boys Draco

had just ravished were handsome, fun, and above all, perfectly willing to give him free rein with their bodies,

but... they weren't _him_. The silence in the room was deafening. Deafening silence. Draco snorted at the

ridiculousness of the phrase, then stopped. The realization struck him hard and cold. There was a silence within

him. It was a silence which sometimes left him staggered by its intensity, the vacant precision with which it had

taken up residence inside his heart. It was a silence which only the voice of a certain teacher had ever come

close to breaking. But the teacher in question wasn't interested in him, and, Draco supposed, he would live the

rest of his life dying in its grip, with Daphne smiling at his side.

&

Harry couldn't mark his papers. He had felt Sybil's eyes on him for at least five minutes, and it was near

impossible for him to work under such scrutiny.

"Sybil?"

"Yes, my dear?"

"Why do you keep looking at me?"

"A feeling, my dear. In my waters."

Harry sighed, and got up, mug in hand, ready for a refill. He was halfway to the kettle when the door

opened. Suddenly, the sound of china smashing filled the room, reverberating slightly in the stillness which

ensued. The entire staffroom turned to look at Harry, who had dropped his coffee, then at the man who had just

entered, followed by Dumbledore.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I present our newest member of staff - Mr Tom Riddle."

**next chapter - harry and tom have words. oh dear. **


	9. Chapter 9

**a/n…**

**So since the last time I updated this story, the final Harry Potter has been published, I've started a new degree, America has elected its first black president, and most importantly, Justin Bieber has descended upon the unsuspecting world like a dark rain. WOW. It's been a long time hasn't it?? I'm very sorry if my leaving this story left anyone frustrated, but I'm back to finish it so please don't hate me! I had to put other projects first, but I was always thinking about this one! I've made/am making a few tiny changes to earlier chapters (namely erasing any trace of my review-angst – oh the humanity…), but these won't affect the main story. I haven't written for a while so bear with me guys… Here we go again!**

- 9 -

It was during his afternoon mid-class run that Draco felt the scream. This was the only was he could describe the feeling – it was a sharpness which pierced his heart the way a scream would pierce his ears. He had felt it only twice before – once as his mother was being mugged on a foggy backstreet in Clapham, the other as his father had tried to pass off a shooting pain in his left arm as 'misplaced indigestion'. The scream was different from Draco's other feelings in that he couldn't shove it aside, pretend it wasn't there. Everything else – happiness, sadness, anger, pain – these were white daisies, with the scream a red rose. And now, as it faded, as he slowed his pace and the world seemed to slow with him, he could think only of Mr Potter. Of Harry…

&

_The room is silent, and to everyone else this silence is a gap preceding words. To Harry, the silence_ is_ a word. In this moment, the pain of a lifetime stretches itself out before Harry, a dark road, and at the road's end he sees only him. Only Tom. The rest of the room gathers itself together, 'hello'-ing and 'how do you'-ing, lumbering up to its new occupant but Harry can only stand, still. He can't speak. To speak would be to scream. "Don't touch him! Don't go near him!" He feels the words pressing in his throat, frantic. "You don't know what he is! You don't know what he's done!"… But there will be no grand announcements, no truth-telling – only a vague nodding and hmming, as Albus slides Tom to his desk. Harry has never wanted to tell anyone anything more than in this moment, but he is stopped by a simple truth, one he has gathered scar by scar over the years. If they knew what he knew, they would be dead. Harry doesn't look Tom in the eye._

&

Nobody noticed it. Amidst the swirling, awkward chaos that accompanied Tom's arrival – the gauging and admiring of him, the mutters about Harry's rather strange reaction to him, Sybil's point blank refusal to shake his hand – with all the action that was going on, the look had passed under the radar. It was the sort of look that could only have been born from years of waiting, and years of pain, the sort of look that drew attention and if anyone had seen it… Sirius silently thanked whatever God there was that the other reactions to Tom had deflected away from his own. All it would have taken was one person to see it, and everything might have gone to pieces. This was something he had learned from Alastor – that it was usually not the big mistakes that did you in, but the small ones. _"Every detail counts,"_ he used to tell Sirius,_"Details are the difference between life and death"_. In the end, Alastor had learned his own lesson the hard way. He had slipped on the number of years he had been in school, had said 1966 as the finish date instead of 1964, and that had been enough. But one lesson Alastor had never faltered on was the first he had taught Sirius. _"Whatever it takes, young man. We do whatever it takes." _And as Sirius strode up to Tom, as he shook his hand, he had thought over and over of those words.

&

The remnants of the school-day seemed to fly past Harry, as if he were stranded in some other, more terrible reality, and could not quite catch up with the world of Rowling's, with all the happiness and freedom that world represented. Now, he sat in his room. Hiding. He looked at his watch. One more hour to go before the day was truly done. This hour was Draco Malfoy's second to last detention before the month's round came to a close. _How neat. How clean_, thought Harry, smiling grimly to himself. _As one sentence ends, another begins_. It was only a shame that there was no cut off point to Harry's punishment, no guarantee of freedom at the end. Harry breathed in deeply, sadness lodged, lifeless, in his throat. It had been beautiful, this Garden of Eden, but he knew the story of the Fall, he knew that the snake would always come, would always whisper sweet words for dark ends, would always destroy. He knew that Tom had come to collect him, as he always had done and it would be so easy to succumb, to let himself be taken before any lives were put at risk… He shook the thought out of his head. If it was not him, it would be someone else. God only knew how many had suffered in the time Tom had taken to track Harry down. With a slowness more suited to a man nearing the end of his years, Harry stood up, dusted himself off. He would not let him win. He would stay and fight. If the abuse had been his and Tom's private battle, then this would be their private war.

&

Draco stared out at the darkening sky, head firmly angled away from the door. He felt that if he stared at it, it would never open, and Harry would never arrive. Just a few hours ago, Draco had been planning his line of attack – namely, tell Harry about the avalanche of begging texts he had received from his potential suitors and, God willing, make the man mad with jealousy because, well, if he couldn't have him, at least he could have that… But now his plan had withered, shown itself as a trite, teenage husk of a thing in the shadow of the scream. Draco stared at the blank page before him. He had also planned to maybe get some work done, show Potter that he wasn't all dazzling good looks and heart-warming modesty, that he had a brain too, but that plan had also gone up in smoke. He couldn't concentrate. He just needed to know that Harry was okay, and he would be back to normal. Draco knew he shouldn't be this concerned about the man. After all, what he felt for him was only infatuation. Wasn't it? Just then, the door opened and Draco's heart soared despite himself. _Jesus, Potter_… he thought, _I never knew I_…

&

… but the thought hung there, unfinished. Whoever had just walked in was roughly the same height as Harry, roughly as handsome, but he was not Harry. The drop down from the ecstasy he'd felt at Harry's arrival made Draco feel slightly dizzy. Nauseous, even.

"Have you seen Harry Potter about? He was supposed to be here," said the man, and Draco, instantly and completely irrationally, hated him with a blind fury. There was nothing outwardly offensive about the man, but somehow…

"He's supposed to be taking my detention. He's probably been held up," Draco murmured, trying to avoid the man's gaze. Draco wasn't violent by nature, but he felt that if he looked too long at the man something would snap, and he would find himself compelled beyond reason to pummel him. Possibly with something sharp.

"Well could you tell him that -" the man began, but was cut off by the arrival of a figure shuffling into the room.

"Ah, no need. Hello Harry."

For a moment, Draco didn't recognize him. There was something so fragile about him, so unlike the strong, confident, happy man he knew. It was almost as though Harry's shadow had just walked in, with the real man trailing behind somewhere, lost.

&

Harry took his place at his desk. Gave Draco the ghost of a smile. Pulled out some paperwork and placed it in front of him. The movement lasted just long enough to show that his hands were shaking. Draco watched this, astounded; Harry glanced up to see him looking and as their eyes met, Draco saw for the first time his own longing matched in them. As quickly as he had seen it, it was gone – replaced by a dreadful numbness, a quiet devastation. Heart sinking, Draco knew beyond doubt that Harry was the one the scream had called for, and the world seemed to slow around him once more.

"You're late," Draco said as flatly as he could, though every nerve in his body pulsed with concern.

"I got caught up with some work," said Harry, taking his seat. Then, quietly, he added, "Hello Tom."

"I'd like a word, if you wouldn't mind," said Tom.

Draco's eyes widened in disbelief. When Tom spoke, Harry had _flinched_ and in that moment, Draco knew Harry's secret just as Harry had known his…

"I rather do mind, unfortunately," Harry replied.

"It won't take a moment."

"I'm afraid my hands are tied."

"I'm afraid it can't wait."

"That's a shame."

"It is indeed…"

Tom lingered at the doorway.

"I think he told you to get out," Draco snapped, now hating this man more than he'd ever hated anything in his life.

"Draco…" Harry said quietly, motioning for him to stop talking.

Tom simply smiled, and left. The door sighed shut.

"What did he do to you?" Draco felt his voice shaking with rage and panic. If that man had hurt him, had done anything to him…

Harry was silent.

"Look, I know you're my teacher. I know you're supposed to be the one in charge. But I also know that's there something really,_ really_ wrong."

"Draco… I appreciate your concern –

"— Oh don't talk to me the way they tell you to talk to me! Do you know what you've done to me? Do you?"

"Draco…"

"- You went and made me remember who I could have been. Who I could have been without my father stamping his mark inside my head. I don't know who the hell I am anymore. So forgive me for thinking that maybe, just maybe, you might owe it to me to treat me like an adult -"

"- It's best for everyone if we don't talk about this again. Do you understand?"

Harry's tone was so serious that for a moment Draco almost acquiesced. Then, he thought better of it.

"You forget something, Mr Potter."

"What's that?"

"I'm a Malfoy. And we may be arrogant prats, we may be ungrateful and blinkered and hateful but we get what we want. Always. And I'm going to find out what this is all about, whether you like it or not."

"It's your funeral, Draco."

"Rather mine than yours."

"Don't say that."

"Why not? I mean it…" Draco trailed off, realizing only as he spoke it that it really was true. That thought he hadn't finished, what was it? Oh yes. _I never knew I cared_.

&

Tom had seen many looks in Harry's eyes. He had cut them all out of his memories, framed them, placed them on the walls of that long, narrow corridor in his head, the place where he escaped from himself every so often. Here, Harry's anger. There, grief. Confusion. Acceptance. Pain – and there were many different looks of pain, if one cared enough to truly _see_ them. The look at the very end of this corridor was one of the oldest he had known, and now the rarest. The look of love. The look that Harry had given him so often, once upon a time. He had felt he rather owned that look, that it was his alone and now that man – oh, what was his name? The blond bombshell. Malfoy's son. Whoever he was, he had taken that look, and he had stolen it. Of course, Harry wouldn't know that he was falling for Malfoy Junior. His sense of duty, his sense of morality, all the quaint little values he held so dear, all those things would stop Harry from seeing it - and if he finally did see it, they would definitely stop him from acting on it. But Tom had seen that look bestowed upon the man, however briefly, and that spark, however futile, would have to be put out. What was his name again? Draco, was it?

Yes.

Draco.

**Next chapter - What is Tom planning??**


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